


Whispers Like A Prayer (Your Love Glides Over My Lips)

by kelex



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22970257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: A blasphemous prayer invokes an angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	Whispers Like A Prayer (Your Love Glides Over My Lips)

**Author's Note:**

> C of E is Church of England; Feast of St. Gabriel is also the Feast of the Annunciation.

Crowley slammed the bookshop door as he came in. It was a deliberate slam, because he was absolutely infuriated. “Angel!” he shouted, top of his lungs. “Where the hell are you?”

“Right here, for goodness’ sake.” Aziraphale came out of the stock room, his arms full of volumes. “And could you please find it in your heart to stop shouting profanities?”

Looking around at the absolutely empty shop, Crowley just raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Well, it’s a terrible habit to get into, anyway,” fussed the angel, stacking his books by the register. “Pray tell why you found it necessary to slam my door and crack my glass?” Which was fixed with a wave of his hand. 

“Because.” He huffed loudly. “Grand old C of E is considering resurrecting the Feast of the Archangel Fucking Gabriel in March. Plastered all over the city.”

“Isn’t that interesting.” Aziraphale’s tone of voice indicated to Crowley that he might find this information just as interesting as he might find a bout of diarrhea or intestinal upset. 

“Grandiose prick. I’m going to set fire to the church, want to come and toast some marshmallows?” 

Aziraphale scowled at that. “Now don’t even joke about that, Crowley.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just the thought of that bastard getting even one more person glorifying his name while the rest of us--rest of you all,” he quickly corrected himself, “get all lumped together at Michaelmas, well. It  _ grates. _ ” 

The angel wasn’t bothered enough to miss the slip of Crowley’s tongue, but he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he addressed Michaelmas. “It’s quite a history about it, but it’s easier to lump the angels in together and give one feast day to celebrate them.” 

Crowley blew a long breath through pursed lips, and bit back the sarcastic comment of,  _ are you ever going to stop sucking Heaven’s dick? _ “I know, but it doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it. You’re a bloody Principality, you deserve a day of your own before the damn archangels do.” 

“Technically, Gabriel is a capital-A Archangel, which elevates him to one of the Four Princes of the Throne,” he lectured. “Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, and Uriel are the cardinal Four, and the angelic choirs begin below them.”

“Next you’ll tell me the sky is blue. I know the hierarchy, I used to be part of it, remember?” He sighed again. “Aziraphale, really, when was the last time anyone even remembered an angel’s name outside of the Four Douches?”

“Well.” He considered that. “I don’t know that angels are venerated any longer, especially since most of us were not actually named in the Bible. At least, not the version published for mortal consumption.” He tilted his head towards the back. “I have a copy of Heaven’s Official Bible, and it lists the names of all the angels in Creation. You’re in there, too, all of the Fallen are.” 

“Don’t care.” He slammed his hands on the counter. “Aren’t you righteously pissed? That Gabriel and his lot are getting all the credit for the good works you’ve been doing?”

“Of course not. The reward of good deeds is knowing that you’ve done them, not the recognition that you get.” 

The earnestness in Aziraphale’s tone told Crowley that he believed it. Privately, Crowley thought Aziraphale believed it because he  _ had _ to. And he wasn’t cruel enough to strip that belief away from the angel. “The reward of good deeds is cold hard cash, or at least some sort of physical remuneration.” He started to get a glimmer of an idea at the thought of physical remuneration. “Hang on a minute.” 

Crowley circled the counter and wrapped his arms tightly around Aziraphale. Aziraphale almost glowed at the unexpected contact. “Oh, well, thank yo--Crowley!  _ What are you doing!? _ ”

“Hang on.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale easily, sitting him on the counter for easy access, switching his arms to sweep the angel up in a bridal carry instead. 

Aziraphale clung tightly to Crowley, unused to being carried. He knew his own strength, but hadn’t quite realized that Crowley had the same strength in his wiry frame. They didn’t go far; Crowley merely turned around enough to gently deposit Aziraphale on the couch, then kneel on the cushions between his knees. Crowley didn’t speak, just started to untie the angel’s ugly brown loafer. “What are you doing?”

“Something blasphemous.” Once both ugly shoes were gone, Crowley peeled off both of the angel’s socks, and dropped them on the floor. He lifted one foot, and pressed a kiss to the instep. “Aziraphale, Principality of Heaven and servant of God.” He let one foot go, and picked up the other, repeating the single kiss to the instep. “Angel of the Eastern Gate and Guardian of Eden.”

Aziraphale shivered as he was invoked. No one had invoked his name in prayer in almost five thousand years. He felt himself warming all over. “Crowley…”

“I beseech thee, do me favors.” Crowley’s hands slid up Aziraphale’s legs, avoided his groin, and landed instead on his belt buckle. “My words to thee fly like arrows to pierce thy silent sight and bring your eyes upon me.” His fingers opened the buckle with ease, and he cast the belt aside. “See thy servant, humble and kneeling before thee.” He slid his hands under Aziraphale’s waistcoat, feeling the warmth radiating off his skin. 

A glow was starting to build around Aziraphale, centering around his head as his halo began to manifest itself. 

The holy light beamed down on Crowley, and the heat suffused through him, warming his cold blood. 

“See fit to grant one unworthy of your attention the gift of your hearing.” Crowley peeled open the waistcoat, pulling it off and throwing it over Aziraphale’s chair. “See fit to grant forgiveness to the unforgivable.” He worked the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt open, and threw it wide, exposing the angel’s bare chest. He almost could not bear the ever-brightening light. 

Aziraphale felt a long-lost potency fill every inch of his being. He was almost afraid to speak, because he knew his voice would rumble the entire bookshop. 

Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest, inhaling deeply. “I beg of you, great Principality, to grant me the one thing I desire.” He brought his hands to Aziraphale’s trouser button, but stopped. 

“And what favor would you ask of the Principality, demon?” Aziraphale’s voice was a thundering boom that rattled Crowley’s bones. 

“To be worthy of your love, my angel,” Crowley answered. “To look upon you and have your love burn away all that you see unfit in me, until all that remains is what you would have of me. Speak, and I will hear you.” 

Aziraphale made a quick, impatient gesture and what was left of his clothes disappeared, along with everything Crowley was wearing. The glow that surrounded him filled the room, his halo astonishingly bright in this small space. “Then hear me now, Crowley. Your favor is granted; you are already worthy of my love. To claim otherwise is a lie; were you not worthy, your invocation could not awake my power.” Aziraphale’s wings unfurled, both pair, and he appeared as a reclining Adonais. “You pray to me, with every kiss of your lips, with every look of your eyes, every touch of your hands. Your prayers do not go unanswered, my love.” Raising his hands, Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s cheeks. 

Crowley could not help crying out as the angelic light radiated through his being. Painful only for an instant, soothing calm came right on its heels, the broken edges of Crowley’s heart and soul becoming sanded smooth in barely a heartbeat.

Aziraphale withdrew his hands, and smiled. “You see? There is nothing within you that I would change.” 

He bowed his head. “In your name will I always pray, and in you will I always have faith. In your power will I always believe.” He steepled his hands together in reverence. “In my heart will you always live, in your name, Amen.” The holy words nearly sent Crowley into a small seizure, but it was worth it. 

Still lying on the couch, Aziraphale was nearly rapturous. Crowley had prayed such a  _ strong _ prayer, with such  _ strong _ , true faith in him that it still pulsed through his veins. He fought for control, because the power surging in him sang to him of destruction and death, of laying waste and panting hard at the end of the world. 

The very walls of the bookshop were creaking, as if they strained to hold in the magnificence of the angel’s radiant grace. His wings unfurled, impossibly huge in the small space and still somehow managing to fit. The halo had fully manifested now, and his hands clenched with the need to  _ restrain. _

Crowley remained crouched on the cushions. His head was tucked down because the light was literally blinding; even through his sunglasses he could not bear to look, and even through his closed eyelids he could feel the tingle of righteousness. The ends of his hair were beginning to crisp and smoke, but he felt no pain. 

And the angel knew that the demon could not survive his presence, and yet, he could not stop the invocation of his splendor started by Crowley’s words. So he began his own prayer.

“Crowley, the Fallen, Snake in the Garden, Tempter of the Most Pure.” Aziraphale licked his lips. “Corrupter of the Innocent, I call you forth to stand before me. I summon you in all of your disobedience, and I demand that you appear unto me!” 

Crowley’s body jerked like a marionette on strings, rearing up from the couch with a loud, fervent hiss. His tongue emerged from his mouth, forked and flickering. His sunglasses cracked with the heat of his burning eyes, and the glass fell to the carpet in molten drips. 

He rose over the couch, hovering on black wings. A hard, sulfurous smell filled the air, which was slowly turning dusky around the demon. “Who calls on the Fallen Serpent?” he hissed, sibiliants drawn out long and rumbling. A tail emerged, wrapping around Crowley’s leg as it lengthened to nearly the size of his body. 

“Aziraphale, Principality of Heaven and Guardian of the Gate.” The oculus started to glow brightly, reflecting Aziraphale’s halo. “I call thee forth to stand beside me, to demand of you the favors once asked of me.” 

Crowley’s forked tongue flickered out again, tasting the lightning and ozone that rode the currents of air around them. “Speak.”

The angel spoke. “You asked that I find you worthy of my love; I demand that you find me worthy of yours. I command you, Fallen One, to do what you must to prove that I am what you seek.” 

Crowley roared at the words, demand and command. But that was how a demon was called; power called to power, and power demanded and power commanded. He reached out with arms and wings, wrapping both around the angel and dragging him into the sphere of darkness that seemed to surround him. 

Aziraphale cried out for the briefest of instants as the infernal heat and darkness coiled around the bright whiteness of his aura, dimming his halo for infinitesimal beats. The agony passed faster than it had appeared, and Crowley’s flaming eyes were staring at the angel’s brightly glowing ones. They shared eye contact for an eternity, and Crowley broke it when he dropped his head, chin resting on his chest. “You are what I seek.”

Using one white wingtip, Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s downcast face. “Then look on me and see.” the angel whispered.

All at once, the radiance dimmed around Aziraphale. His wings disappeared, and he sank back on the couch cushions, naked and exhausted. His chest heaved as he breathed heavily, and he turned his head to look at Crowley. 

Crowley was still manifested, black wings holding him aloft. His tail uncoiled from his leg, and it drifted down to wrap around Aziraphale and lift him again until they were face to face. “I have seen you for six thousand years, and I would see you for another six thousand.” His wings lowered him to the floor, so that they were both standing, and then suddenly Crowley was himself again. 

Aziraphale toppled onto the couch and drew Crowley with him, so they collapsed together in a hot, tangled heap. Tiredly, Aziraphale pulled off the demon’s sunglasses and tossed the misshapen frames to the floor, where they disintegrated. “I haven’t been invoked like that in millennia.”

“Same here, angel.” Crowley licked his lips, tongue returned to normal. “Don’t know what I expected, but wasn’t that.” A small smile. “How’d you know to summon?”

Aziraphale just shrugged. “Must have read it in a book sometime.” He didn’t even have the energy right then to miracle up anything, and so he simply tugged the coverlet from the back of the couch and spread it over their nudity. 

Crowley curled eagerly into the warmth of both angel and coverlet. He had felt plenty warm with the power of hellfire flowing through him, but now, he was back to his usual cool self. He pushed his face into Aziraphale’s neck, snuggling in with a throaty sigh. Feeling the angel’s fingers stroking through his hair, he gave a little snort of contentment and was fast on the way to sleeping.

Too exhausted even to sleep, Aziraphale looked down at the demon cradled in his arms. His fingers still played with Crowley’s hair, fingertips rubbing away the blackened and charred ends.

_ If You are listening, please. Let me keep him. Let him keep me. Let us keep each other, and protect the both of us from Your other children. Please. _


End file.
